


the rest is confetti

by thetaserpentis



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Ghost Hunters, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Dysfunctional Family, F/M, Family, Haunted Houses, Horror, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Kid Jemma Simmons, Kid Skye | Daisy Johnson, Nightmares, Parent Melinda May, Past Character Death, Slow Burn, Sort Of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-20
Updated: 2020-11-20
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:34:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27645557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thetaserpentis/pseuds/thetaserpentis
Summary: In the year 1983, Jemma Simmons moves into an old manor with her family. But there is something off about the house; danger lurks in every room. Within five months, her family is fractured irreparably, and the home is abandoned.Twenty two years later, the ghosts of Jemma's childhood refuse to leave her alone. She returns to the home with ghost hunter, Leopold Fitz, willing to do anything to end the terrifying haunting.[A Ghost Hunter AU inspired by The Haunting Series on Netfix]
Relationships: Jemma Simmons & Antoine Triplett, Jemma Simmons & Skye | Daisy Johnson, Leo Fitz/Jemma Simmons, Melinda May & Jemma Simmons, Melinda May & Skye | Daisy Johnson, Minor or Background Relationship(s), Phil Coulson & Jemma Simmons, Phil Coulson & Skye | Daisy Johnson, Phil Coulson/Melinda May
Comments: 2
Kudos: 7





	the rest is confetti

**Author's Note:**

> I absolutely love The Haunting of Hill House and The Haunting of Bly Manor, and this work was inspired by both. It uses a lot of elements from the series, but the plot is different and likely not half as well written. That being said, I put my heart into this and would appreciate you giving it a chance. Seeing the shows before is not required, but I do highly recommend watching them, as they're really amazing shows with amazing representation!
> 
> I'm not sure about what the updates will look like. I'm planning on finishing the entire story before I start updating on a schedule, but I'm also a busy student. I wanted to see what the response would be on the first chapter though, so if you like it, please leave a comment or kudos. 
> 
> No beta, so all grammar mistakes are mine!

**October 14, 2005**

“It’s a long story.” Jemma Simmons tried to keep herself from shivering at the cool breeze that flowed in through the open windows. She pulled at the edges of her grey cardigan, twisting the fabric around her fingers and wrapping it around the front of her torso. She focused on taking deep breaths. It was always something Trip reminded her to do. Breathe. She often wished she could be one of those normal people who didn’t need reminders to breathe. Breathe. Inhale. Exhale. It smelled like eucalyptus and a little bit like a spice that she couldn’t quite put her finger on. “Not sure where to start.”

Her laugh was short lived- a little nervous- and her eyes darted across every wall and corner. It was an open, spacious kitchen. Sunlight streamed in through the windows and green shadows from the trees outside found their way onto the hardwood floors. Still, it was oddly built. The walls had red brick leading into white tile leading into pine wood with no sense of where the edges should lie. 

“The beginning?” Jemma watched the man across from her tentatively. He was well dressed in nice slacks and a blue button up. A bit of scruff covered the otherwise smooth and pale expanse of his skin. He seemed, for the most part, well put together and relaxed, which put Jemma a bit at ease. She didn’t know what to expect, hiring a ghost hunter. She didn’t even know if she believed in ghost hunters- ghosts, yes- but ghost hunters, questionable. “First time you stepped foot in the house,” he prompted, “First time you noticed anything strange?”

Jemma tried to get her bearings. She had to calm down and present herself as a sane person, or else this Leopold Fitz would never believe her. She was sure that ghost hunters got their fair share of traumatized people hanging onto their grief in the most violent ways, but Jemma knew the difference between her personal ghosts and her real ghosts. She has to hope that he will too. 

“Well,” Jemma inhaled sharply. She could catch hints of bread and yeast. The oven seemed to be a gentle source of heat- the only source of heat- as the chill of October crawled through the windows and set into her skin. There was no bread or pumpkin cookies- no trick or treating or simplicity in her childhood. Jemma tried to grasp at the edges of her youth and make sense of it, but after years of not thinking about _it_ and _her_ , time didn’t seem to make sense. Her memories didn’t resemble a linear shape- just one homogenous, dominant feeling. 

“It was all a bit of a blur,” Jemma settled on with no better explanation, “My father had an odd affiliation with history, so we moved into a very old manor. There were rumors… I remember, but he was not a very superstitious man, and thought a bit of love was all the house needed.”

“The rumors?”

Jemma blushed. She was ridiculous, talking about her father as if a ghost hunter would care more about him than ghosts with no faces- a man with an unhinged jaw and a lady with a hole in her stomach. Her eyes flitted from his eyes (surprisingly blue, uncomfortably so) to the curve of his nose and to the flicker of the fire on the stovetop. 

“People disappearing from the grounds,” Jemma swallowed and smiled, “but like I said the manor was old. No one had lived there for decades I think, and any old house is bound to have its ghost stories. 

“But I’m guessing for your house, it isn’t just stories.” It had been so long since she was in England, and Jemma marveled slightly at the timbre of his voice and the way he pronounced his words as if he were carefully selecting which sounds to throw and which to draw out. Consonants became syllables, and Jemma focused on that over the bitter feeling that seemed to overtake her heart and fill her chest. 

“Suppose I wouldn’t be here if they were just stories,” Jemma said. He smiled then, briefly, his eyes crinkling for just a second. “Mr. Fitz-“

“Just Fitz will be alright.”

“Well, Fitz. I have to be honest, I’m a little hesitant.” Jemma supposed the price was more than fair if he was successful, but it was hard to believe anyone could snap their fingers and make Jemma’s ghosts disappear. They were such a constant in her life- shadows lurking in every corner, following her shape and her footsteps. Nothing she had done could get them to leave her alone, and now she was supposed to believe this stranger could. “Have you ever seen a ghost before?”

Jemma was relieved when Fitz seemed to smile at the question rather than react defensively. “I’ve seen a few.” Jemma didn’t understand his smile. It wasn’t condescending, and he certainly didn’t find the situation funny. It was one of those reminiscing type of smiles, and Jemma couldn’t imagine a single situation where one could think of ghosts in that manner. 

“Is it dangerous?” Jemma pushed, “Any close calls? Scrapes with death?” 

Jemma’s surprised to see him nod his head. It only made his previous answers more concerning. If he had an encounter with a ghost- a real ghost- that nearly ended his life, Jemma couldn’t imagine why he would think of it fondly.

“Mr. Fitz, this is a dangerous job,” Jemma warned. Despite her surprise and confusion, she was glad that he had a close call with a ghost. It meant that she didn’t have to shoulder as much guilt from tossing him into her nightmare of a life. He would have experience, and if he was lying about that experience, it would be on him rather than Jemma. 

“It’s just Fitz,” he said. He glanced at the manila folder, flipping it open with one finger to reveal the pictures of the house Jemma had sent. Her emails were there too- her stories and her pleas. He must have seen it- her desperation. He must have seen it in the emails, and he must see it now, on her face. “It’s a dangerous job, Ms. Simmons, but it is my job. Let me know when we can get started.” 

**December 12, 2003**

“I wish you wouldn’t say that.” Jemma curled the chain of her necklace around her finger tightly, watching the tip of her index plump up and turn different shades. “You know it hurts me when you say that.” 

"Look, this isn’t me trying to… attack you or hurt you. I felt the same way,” Daisy’s voice crackled through the end of the phone, a little rough around the edges. “She’s trying now. I know it hasn’t been easy, but she’s trying now.”

“I know. I know.” Jemma looked through the smeared glass of the cafe windows. It was getting late. The sky was turning a pale gray shade as the sun disappeared behind the tops of buildings. The shadows were growing longer, and Jemma twisted her necklace tighter. The pattern of the chain imprinted itself on her finger, and Jemma worried the thin gold would snap. The streets were still crowded- Jemma wasn’t alone- but she knew better than to let her guard down. More people on the streets meant more people it could be. There were more people she could see it in. “I know you said it isn’t about me, but it is. This is about me, and I’m just not ready, okay?” 

There was silence on the other end, and Jemma waited for the exasperated sigh or the click on the end of the line that usually ended their conversations. Instead, the silence seemed to drag, and Jemma wondered if she had missed it- that click. “Will you ever be ready?”

A figure outside slammed into the glass, and Jemma startled, watching the silhouette regain its balance and stumble away. She wished she could have taken a seat far from the window, but she needed to be aware of how dark it was getting outside. “I don’t know Daisy.” Jemma watched the figure turn down an alley. She never saw their face. “Maybe not. Maybe I’ll never be ready. Is that so bad?” 

“I know that… I know May has made some mistakes-“ 

“It’s not about her. It’s about me,” Jemma exhaled sharply and set her teeth into her bottom lip. She didn’t like being the one _like this_. But it seemed that ever since Daisy had reestablished her relationship with their mother, Jemma had become the “unhinged” one in the family. And it wasn’t that Jemma didn’t love Daisy or wasn’t happy for Daisy, but she didn’t consider herself by any means unhinged, and it was offensive for her to be viewed as such. 

“It's about me, okay?” Jemma watched the expressions of people as they passed by. Their faces were set like they were casted to play one emotion for the rest of their lives- mostly annoyed. Their lips moved, sometimes pursed and other times talking, but always giving away the aliveness of them. Their eyelids fluttered against the soft tissue of their eyeballs, all fascinating colors and darting pupils. Jemma relished in the comfort of it- of the realness and aliveness of the city people. “I’m not mad at her-“ Daisy hummed. “I’m _not_. Maybe I used to be but not anymore. I’m not angry. I just need to be alone.”

“I said the same thing,” Daisy said, and Jemma curled inward on herself. She was being coaxed like a wounded animal- feral and unpredictable- but Jemma was none of those things. She was being smart, and in her mind, her actions were perfectly justifiable. She was sane, and on top of that, she was older. She was the older sister who was supposed to look after Daisy- not the other way around.

“The things that happened in that house-“

“You don’t know anything about that house, Daisy,” Jemma quickly pressed the little red button and snapped her phone shut. She held it closed like a box, as if it could somehow spring back open, and Daisy’s angry voice would be on the other end. She waited two, three seconds, inhaled sharply, and grabbed her bag to leave. It was freezing out. It was a type of dry cold that came into the city every now and then with none of the pleasantries of snow. Jemma let the cold air fill her lungs and pushed through the crowds of people, keeping her head down. She needed to get back to her apartment before it got too dark. 

**June 23, 1983**

She didn’t understand how Daisy could sleep so well. It had been weeks since, and Jemma knew that Daisy didn’t see what happened, but she still cannot comprehend how the little girl could sleep. She looked too peaceful, too at rest, and Jemma could not understand. 

The air in the bedroom was too still and too stale. It was a little humid too. The summer was creeping in through the corners, and their grandmother refused to touch the AC, opting to crack open the window a little bit instead. But no air flowed in- just the sticky heat and the sound of cicadas. Jemma missed England. She missed their home and all the homes before it. She missed her parents most of all. 

Daisy must miss them too. She cried more than she ate, and she would throw tantrums until their grandmother threatened to take away Daisy’s stuffed bunny. Jemma thought it was cruel, but she couldn’t say it was ineffective. But looking at Daisy now, curled around that stupid bunny, eyelids fluttering and mouth agape, Jemma wouldn’t have been able to tell. She wouldn’t have been able to tell that Daisy was a kid who liked to hide in closets to cry. 

A part of her envied Daisy. She wanted to spend her whole day screaming and crying and throwing nasty curse words at the universe, and she wanted to go to sleep at night with her heart emptied of her sorrow. She wanted to, but she couldn’t. She had Daisy to look after now- now that their parents were gone, and she had to do a better job at it than she did in the house. 

So when Daisy kicked in her sleep, gathering up the scratchy, thin blanket and hogging it for herself, Jemma reminded herself that she wasn’t a little kid anymore. She wasn’t five years old, and she didn’t need the blanket. She didn’t need to sleep. If Daisy kept kicking her, it meant Daisy was still alive, and Jemma was succeeding. 

The nights were long and tedious things to get through. Jemma was riddled with boredom and exhaustion, but sleep was like a foreign concept. She felt the weight in her legs and the pulsing behind her eyelids, but her brain still jumped from thought to thought like it was electrocuted. She felt her body cry for rest, but her mind was a constant buzz that refused to quiet. 

Jemma thought briefly about shutting her eyes and getting something resembling sleep. If she couldn’t get real rest, closing her eyes for a minute or two might reset her brain. Her eyes were nearly closed, when she caught the silhouette. She didn’t really process what or who it was at first. It was like seeing a coat rack in the dark or a suit hanging over a door. It wasn’t really anything at all until Jemma rubbed at her eyes and squinted harder, and that’s when she saw the lady. 

Her face was a pale imitation of what a face should be. The eyes were sealed shut, eyelids meshing with skin until no sockets existed at all, just some hollow indents that could have once been the windows to the soul. The nose looked like it had been eroded like Ancient Greek busts. Her lips were melded together and shut tight like concrete filling a hole, and where it should have been soft pink, it was a gray paleness that left her face as still as a doll. Her skin looked like it was melting- like it was wax halfway down the candle before someone paused and cemented her in that position forever. Worst all was the stomach. Where there should have been a stomach was a huge gaping hole. It only went all the way through to the other side in one small region of her upper abdomen, the size of a quarter, but the rest of her stomach looked like a crater. Jemma could see her guts spilling out over the bones of her hips and onto the red dress she wore. 

Jemma didn’t know when she started screaming, but she was aware of Daisy waking up in a fit of tears. Daisy was yelling “Be quiet! Be quiet!” nearly as loud as Jemma screamed. She yanked on her hair until Jemma had to look away, and when she turned back, the ghost was gone. The ghost was gone, but Jemma’s fear had only grown stronger. Why had the lady followed her here? Hadn’t Jemma given enough? 

Jemma somehow thought it would be over. The lady took the biggest thing Jemma could ever give, and they left the house behind. Jemma had lost everything. She had lost her father, and now she had lost her mother. And now the lady was here for more, and Jemma didn’t know how much more she could give. Was she supposed to give Daisy? She couldn’t. Could she give herself? The lady haunted her, and yet she never took her, and Jemma wondered why. Why didn’t the lady take her and find some new family to haunt? 

Daisy’s screams turned into cries, and the harsh white lights of their bedroom flickered on. Their grandmother rushed into the bedroom and scolded Jemma for waking her sister. She picked Daisy up in her arms and shushed her and carried her away, and Jemma thought, if the lady had really returned, it was better that Daisy stay far away.

**August 8, 2004**

Jemma hated wearing black. 

She’s hated wearing black since the moment they stuffed her into the itchiest lace dress- black of course- for her first funeral at the ripe age of four. It was her parents funeral- biological parents- and she didn’t remember anything from the actual event. It was so long ago and she was so young, but Jemma did remember the way the lace itched and made her cry. She remembered that she missed her parents and wasn’t quite sure why she had to look at them but not touch. 

Then she had another funeral four years later. It was a lot less fun than the first- more ingrained in Jemma’s memory than the first. She remembered holding Daisy’s hand and waiting and waiting and waiting. The dress at least was much more comfortable- a simple cotton dress with no embellishments. It was quite fitting. Jemma remembered wanting to mourn, and she remembered running after Daisy instead- Daisy who was throwing a tantrum and refusing to sit still in her seat. 

Jemma remembered being angry at Daisy. She knew if she were to handle Daisy now- young Daisy, only six years old- she wouldn’t have felt nearly as much resentment or anger, but Jemma was a kid too. She was only eight years old, and she was confused and hurt, and she didn’t really understand why she had just lost a mother and become one herself. 

Well, Jemma wished Daisy would throw a tantrum now. She wished Daisy would run and make a fuss, but Daisy was sitting in her own chair, resolute and still. She barely twitched, didn’t make much more movement than blinking. Her eyes were trained on the people giving their eulogies, but it was like she wasn’t really seeing them. Her eyes were so glossy, and Jemma wanted to go over and hold her hand again. She wanted to protect her and comfort her like she did when they were kids, but it wasn’t the same. They barely spoke now- maybe a phone call once a month- and Jemma doubted either of them forgot the contents of their last call before Lincoln died. 

It wasn’t that Jemma didn’t want Daisy to get married at all. She just thought it would be a good idea for her to wait. There were a lot of things Jemma wished she could have changed about that conversation. She wished she waited instead of jumping into it immediately and ruining Daisy’s celebration. She wished she had gotten to know Lincoln beforehand, and maybe then, the thought wouldn’t have crossed her mind at all. She wished she would’ve been careful with her words and never wished anything bad on Lincoln. 

If she knew, she wouldn’t have said any of it. But there was no way she could’ve known Lincoln would die a week later. They said it was an aneurysm- totally unexpected considering the man’s perfect health and regular checkups. Jemma had her own theories about what happened that night, when Lincoln got out of bed for a drink and hit the ground. 

Daisy was on the opposite side of the church from her, two rows forward, three seats from the center aisle. May came from the rightmost aisle then, in her own black dress. Her face wore the same stern look Jemma was used to. Her palm opened on Daisy’s back, a comforting rub, and Jemma felt that pull of nausea in her stomach that had been plaguing her her whole life. 

“Are you good?” Trip asked. She wanted to say no. She really wasn’t good. Her little sister’s fiancé was in a coffin. Jemma thought a _ghost_ from her childhood was responsible, and her broken family was sitting on the other side of that center aisle, and Jemma felt like she was watching from outside the house through a window. And Jemma supposed she could go over there and speak to her estranged mother and sister, but she knew that she couldn’t. As long as Jemma was in their lives, she was putting them at risk. Lincoln was evidence. “We can take a minute,” Trip said, “Take a breath in the hallway.” 

At his suggestion, Jemma nearly sprinted out of the church. She tried to go as steadily as she could, not wanting to draw attention to herself. She needed air before she vomited up the nothingness in her stomach. Trip clambered over chairs to follow behind her. 

He was a steady rock in Jemma’s life. She appreciated him for accompanying her to the funeral, especially because funerals were never fun. He didn’t know Lincoln and had never met Daisy or May, but he was here despite it all for Jemma. He was sane and reasonable, and Jemma was his crazy roommate who saw ghosts and threw up her dinner and didn’t talk to her family. And he was supportive through all of it, and Jemma often considered herself extremely lucky to have gotten a roommate that didn’t mind her frequent insanity. 

The air in the hallway was cold and crisp, and it helped clear Jemma’s mind from the mess and image of a carcass in a casket. She was too familiar with the way dead people looked. It almost didn’t scare her anymore- the absolute stillness of a person, the way their pupils didn’t move under their eyelids and their chest didn’t rise and fall. If anything, Jemma wished she could see them dead- really dead- and not this corpse in a casket with makeup outside and wires inside. Give them the jewelry and the nice clothes and the flowers, but Jemma wanted to see their glossy eyes and their decayed skin. It only felt right. If they were to die, she thought they should die as people were meant to- without the embalming and mummification. Jemma heard the phrase “it’s like their sleeping” too many times in her life, and she knew better than anyone that they were never just sleeping. 

Her eyes locked with Trip’s. He was concerned per usual when Jemma was involved, but she hated making him feel that way. She wanted to return to movie nights and pizza for dinner and laughing at Trip’s dance moves. He made her feel normal in a way- never judgmental and leading an incredibly simplistic life. It was who he was by nature, but Jemma also worried about the toll her dependency might take on him. “I’m worried about Daisy,” Jemma said at last. For the most part she wanted to shift Trip’s focus to someone he had no obligation to, but she really was worried about Daisy.

“You’re usually worried about Daisy,” Trip said, which was true enough. Jemma had been worrying about Daisy her entire life. 

“It’s different.” Trip looked at her with a lot of doubt, and Jemma doubted herself a little too. “Daisy’s been clean, but I’m worried… I don’t want her to fall back into old habits or rely on any of that stuff anymore.”

“I’m sure Daisy’s stronger than you think.”

“No one’s strong enough to lose someone they love,” Jemma said bitterly, “That’s the thing people don’t really talk about. You know, they tell you once you’re clean your life will be so much better- all sunshine and rainbows, but the world is just as fucked up as it was before. It’s just now you don’t have drugs to help you deal with it.” Trip hesitated. Jemma was losing her cool, and it was her least favorite thing to do. She took a deep breath, and tried again, “She wanted to marry him, Trip. How do you cope with that kind of loss?”

“With a strong support system,” Trip said, “Why don’t you just talk to her? Be there for her? It does wonders.” 

Jemma shrugged. It made logical sense to be her shoulder to lean on- to take care of Daisy when she was grieving too hard to take care of herself. She could see Trip’s thought process, but she didn’t know how to explain that the best way to take care of Daisy- of her family- was to stay away. 

**February 4, 1983**

“It’s still cold out. Where’s your jacket?”

Jemma was halfway down the stairs when she stopped in her tracks. 

May stood in the kitchen, sunlight streaming through the open window to illuminate her face. May’s features were soft, but her expressions were sharp. She stopped whisking whatever was in her bowl to fix Jemma with a glare. “You need to wear a jacket if you’re going outside again.”

“I’ll get my jacket before I go outside,” Jemma tried for innocence as if she wouldn’t already be out the door if May didn’t stop her. But of course, May saw right through her and gave her one of those particularly scary looks. Jemma was, in general, a well behaved kid. According to Coulson, she was a little bit too well behaved. That’s why he was a little too soft with her and Daisy, and May would be the one to keep them in check.

Jemma loved that Coulson was lenient and spoiled her a bit, but she also liked that May was so strict. It felt nice to have someone care about her for the first time in a while- even if it meant Jemma had to run back upstairs for her jacket. 

Her parents drove each other crazy, and Jemma never really cared which one won. 

Daisy could be a monster sometimes. It was like she was either on a sugar high or coming down from one- always bouncing with energy or two minutes away from a tantrum. It was still a welcome change from the scared little kid who shoved all her stuff in a trash bag to get passed around. Coulson was always slipping Daisy sugary candies, and May was always scolding him for it. 

And Jemma was a well behaved kid. She was quiet and followed instructions perfectly. She didn’t talk back, and she was all politeness, and when she first met Coulson and May, she couldn’t understand why it displeased them. It was stressful. She was such a people pleaser and to see her new parents frown when she stayed perfectly quiet was disconcerting. Coulson would tempt her to trouble sometimes- sneak her books from the library late at night. Jemma had a sneaking suspicion that May knew (May knew everything) but May would come into her room when it was officially too late. She'd pretend like she was angry at them and tell Jemma to go to sleep. 

Jemma was still well behaved of course, but when it came to her interests she could forget. She always got in trouble for yelling at Daisy when she got into her things, and she was always doing things like wandering too far or getting her clothes dirty or forgetting her jacket. 

“I really will get it, Mum,” Jemma said. She walked over to where her mother was standing, and planted her palms on the counter to push herself up. She saw glimpses of the grass outside, still wet and dewy from last night’s rain. “I want to go by the lake today.” 

“So you can get your clothes all dirty and wet?” May asked. She set her mixing bowl on the counter so she could heave Jemma up to sit on the counter. “You’ll catch a cold playing by the lake in this weather.”

“I won’t go _in_ the lake,” Jemma whined. 

“You’ll say that, but you’ll still come back wet. I don’t need you catching a cold.” Jemma was about to protest when May threw one of those looks- the “don’t argue with me, you’ll lose” type of look- and Jemma deflated. May was going to let her go by the lake anyways, Jemma knew, but she didn’t have to be so annoying about it. May softened a bit at Jemma’s pout. Her expression was still set like stone, but she grabbed the bowl and held up the whisk, dripping with batter. “Want to try some?” 

And then all arguments about jackets and the lake was forgotten. May held the whisk out carefully, catching the drops with the bowl, and Jemma leaned forward to lick at some of the falling batter. “Lemon?” Jemma asked, “That’s my favorite!” May rolled her eyes. Jemma never forgot to remind everyone that lemon was her favorite. “Is there something special happening? Why are you baking a cake?”

“There’s nothing special happening. Your father,” May said it with all the exasperation and fondness in the world, “had some extra lemons from when he made lemonade, so I thought I’d make your favorite. No point in wasting it.” May let out a sigh as she threw the whisk back down into the batter and set it aside. “I should’ve made him do it. He was always a better cook than me.” 

“I think it tastes perfect.”

“Good thing, because you’re not getting any tonight unless you get a jacket.” Jemma made a show of sighing before she slipped off the counter, landing hard on her feet. It was a good threat, she thought, rushing up the stairs to snatch the first jacket she could find. 

She grabbed one of the hoodies she saw thrown on the end of her bed- a bright orange zip up hoodie- pulling it over her back as she tripped through the hallway. She grabbed one of the trench coats on the coat rack for good measure, throwing it on top and haphazardly rolling up her sleeves. 

When she passed through the kitchen again, May called out, “You plan on dirtying up your father’s jacket?” 

“You told me to get one,” Jemma pointed out, pouting at the idea of having to run back up. 

“I didn’t say it was a bad thing,” May shrugged, turning back to the window to rinse off a measuring cup. The sour look on Jemma’s face melted. “He’s always wanting you out and about, might as well give him some proof.” 

“Do you not want me out and about?” Jemma already knew the answer but she liked to hear May say it for future reference if an argument were to ever crop up. 

“I’m sure you’d get bored inside,” which is as much of an admission as Jemma could get. “As long as you get back by dark. As soon as that porch light turns on-”

“Time to come inside. I know.” May seemed satisfied to finally let Jemma go, but Jemma hesitated. “When it’s dark… have you seen things?” May peered over at her curiously. “I see things at night sometimes,” Jemma elaborated, “Like… shadows. Or I see it in the woods.”

May frowned, her arms coming to a still. She didn’t look at Jemma, staring a hole into the floor with knit eyebrows. “You know how the dark can make you see things, especially in new places. Coat racks start looking like people and chairs start looking like monsters.” 

It was a fair assessment. Jemma could still remember what it was like to be placed in a new home, and every different room had different monsters to be afraid of. But it was different. She’d been living in this house for a good month, but the shadows seemed to stick around, and they moved. “But sometimes I hear things too.”

May broke out of her stupor then, returning to the dishes in the sink. “It’s an old house, so the pipes like to jump around,” May said, “The dark makes everything a little scarier.” 

Jemma shrugged then. It made sense she supposed, and May was smarter and braver than her after all. And with that thought in mind, Jemma pulled open the heavy oak door, and ran outside to the wet crisp cold. 

**October 25, 2005**

“It definitely looks haunted.” 

Jemma turned to look at Fitz who took in the house with wide eyes. They stood together on the driveway that twisted and turned into the front of the house. Hedges surrounded them on either side, and it had been mostly quiet except for the crickets until Fitz spoke. 

He looked at her hesitantly then, eyes darting to her face before his head whipped back to face the house. Jemma kept her eyes trained on him. “I just mean- you know- usually you- well, I usually end up working in normal suburban homes. But this- yeah, it looks like you’d think a haunted house would look like.” He was wearing a long blue coat that billowed around his legs. Underneath was a light blue button up, covered mostly by a large, dark fair isle sweater. He had brought no bags or things, and Jemma wondered if she should be worried. Shouldn’t ghost hunters have things?

He turned to Jemma then, and she gave him a smile before finally turning to face the house. She had been so sure it would look dead. She expected it to have vines growing along the walls and windows covered with dust and grime. It didn’t. Jemma supposed that was the work of the house flippers, but it still felt a little wrong to see the house so the same when Jemma had changed so much. 

“Come on then,” Jemma muttered. She led the way up the driveway and followed the stone path that led to the front doors of the house. They were made of thick glossy dark oak, and the doors were just as heavy as she remembered. She yanked at the brass handle and heaved open the left side, allowing Fitz to go in. 

The entrance of the house was a large, spacious area. The ceiling was two stories high, and in front of them was one wide staircase. The deep auburn color of the wood was covered by a long grey rug that ran from the tops of the steps to the bottom. Halfway to the second story, the stairs split into two paths heading in opposite directions, but they were ultimately connected by a pathway above Jemma’s head. She stepped further into the house where the roof finally opened up, and she could peak at the railings of the story above them. 

“You really lived in this house?” Fitz asked. 

Instead of an answer Jemma started her tour. She showed him the kitchen directly to the left of the entrance. Jemma remembered it being a lot more open- spacious and bright and happy. She supposed seeing it at night would certainly change things, but Jemma knew it wasn’t the only reason. She showed him the side door that led out onto a small porch area and the fields outside. The lake could be seen from the kitchen window. She didn’t enter the cellar. She never had before and she wasn’t in the mood for a new experience. But Jemma did open the door so Fitz could see the wooden steps that led into the darkness. It wasn’t quite as well kept, Jemma noticed. Perhaps the house flippers hadn’t gotten to that part of the house yet. The wood wasn’t sanded down, and the steps were made out of wooden planks with no real, solid support underneath. 

She led him through the back of the house where the hallways were unnervingly empty. Large windows lined the back wall, showing the stone statues outside. They didn’t seem to have quite as much luck as the rest of the house; weeds and vines curled around the shape of their bodies. Jemma kept the lights off. It was at the request of the house flipper- the one she had talked to who had allowed her to do this whole thing. They had to pay the electric bills, so no lights on all night. Fair enough. 

It was such a large house, and she couldn’t remember where the worst of it was. It felt like it had been everywhere- the dark, heavy feeling. She knew that couldn’t be true. She had at least one or two good memories, but it was all marred now. Everything seemed to be coated in a blanket of fear and trepidation, and Jemma couldn’t remember where the worst of it was. 

“This was my bedroom,” Jemma pushed open the door. There was no bed anymore. The only furniture still in the room was an old dresser with a vanity mirror on top. It was one of those things that had always been here. Her father hadn’t wanted her to move it. He liked old things too much, and Jemma supposed whoever was flipping the house had similar sensibilities. 

The rest of the room was bare. Dust had collected in the corners, and the lamination of the planks below them was scratched up. There was one large window that faced the driveway, and the curtains were still there, drawn to the sides and tied up. She opened up her childhood closet- a small walk in- and found that all the shelves and racks had been taken down. The walls were dented and scraped up at the parts where the racks had once been. Holes from screws scattered the walls. 

“Some things have changed,” Jemma said at last. It was comforting at least to know that some things had changed. It was a little terrifying too. Jemma didn’t think the house could have its own consciousness or be angry about all these changes but the people… 

Eventually they settled on the platform between the main steps and the section where it diverged. Their backs were leaned against the dark oak that characterized the whole house, and a good few feet above their heads was one of those excessively large windows. It was tinted a mosaic of dark greens and blues and whites, but it made no real image. Jemma waited, and Fitz waited. It was painfully awkward like this- with all the silence. 

She wished he had brought along something- anything really that could coax out the ghosts of her childhood. After haunting Jemma for 22 years, she would think they wouldn’t hesitate to jump at the opportunity as soon as she walked back through these doors. 

He almost seemed to read her mind then, whispering, “It’s perfectly normal by the way- to not get anything on the first night.” Jemma shifted uncomfortably. How had he even known she was thinking about that? “It’s a process to get through. Ghost hunting isn’t exactly an exact science.” 

Jemma wished it was. She liked exact sciences and answers and explanations. If even a ghost hunter couldn’t figure this out, there really was no hope for Jemma at all. “It’ll come eventually,” Jemma said, “It’s been following me since I was kid. Don’t understand why it’s so shy now.” 

“Is that why?” Fitz asked, “Is that why you came back? Because it’s still following you now?”

Jemma gave as passive of a shrug as she could offer, pulling at the sleeves of her sweater. “Yeah, that’s why.” 

**August 31, 2005**

The last year of Jemma’s life was breaking new records of how awful things could get. She knew nothing would ever really get to that number one spot, but she didn’t appreciate the past twelve months of her life slowly climbing its way up to second place.

She was seeing her more often- the lady in the red dress. It was a steady increase. Jemma saw her after Lincoln’s funeral, but she had thought it was the guilt manifesting. But afterwards, she came more frequently, stopping in Jemma’s bedroom at night and standing under street lights outside. It went from Jemma seeing her once or twice every six months to seeing her almost everyday now. Every corner Jemma turned, she tensed and waited to see that featureless face and that awful hole in her stomach. Even when the lady wasn’t standing there, the anticipation of it was nearly just as bad. Even when the lady wasn’t really there, it felt like Jemma was being followed- hunted. 

Trip could see her decent. He tried things like buying her comfort foods and taking on more responsibilities around the house. Jemma felt awful about it. She wanted her friendship to continue the way it was the years before Lincoln’s death. She wanted to be the normal and sane roommate that Trip probably deserved. His meaningful gestures winded her up into an even tenser caricature of herself. In the end, the only effective thing Trip could do was distract. She never ate dinner alone anymore, and they watched movies late into the night until Jemma fell asleep. 

And in return, Jemma tried to show her appreciation in other things that she could be more capable of. She paid for all the food, and she took on grocery shopping responsibilities. She cleaned and cleaned until the house was uncomfortably clean, and she bought Trip his favorite snacks without request. It never felt like enough, but Jemma did her best. And she never talked about her- the lady. At the end of the day, Trip was a normal man with a normal job, and Jemma couldn’t figure out how to explain what was driving her insane. 

Another month, Jemma thought. One month at a time. One day at a time. 

“I got mediterranean pizza this time cause I felt fancy,” Trip said, setting the box in the center or their kitchen island. He dropped into one of the stools and groaned as he stretched out his back and shoulders. “It’s basil and mushrooms.” 

“How much do I owe you?” Jemma asked. 

“None.” Jemma rolled her eyes. They both knew that she would look it up later anyways, but she supposed Trip would make her work for it. It didn’t make sense to her. She was certainly spiraling, but she still had a job. She could pay for things. 

“How was work?” Trip asked. Jemma was holding a pizza cutter (they ate alarming amounts of pizza) and she had the blade poised over the crust. Jemma stilled and tried to remember the events of the day, but lately it felt like she wasn’t really there. She was drifting through her life in a constant state of detachment or fear. “Well, we got some new lab techs,” Jemma started. She resumed her movement, cutting through the cheese and thin crust. “I didn’t really interact with them though. I had burrows explain the organizational system. What about you?”

Trip was quiet as he thought. He worked at an aerospace museum, and he always had millions of stories about the shit he had to deal with from customers. “Work was uneventful. No one really comes when it’s raining, cause they can’t see the rockets outside, but we have a group of middle schoolers coming in next week. I can’t wait for that,” Trip said dryly, “Actually I have something to ask, Dr. Simmons.”

“Is this a PhD Dr. Simmons question or a medical Dr. Simmons question?” Jemma asked. She had to explain to too many people that a biology PhD did not qualify her to offer any medical advice. Trip usually only came to her with minor medical questions, but Jemma always found it important to remind him that her opinion was not necessarily a diagnosis. 

“I woke up this morning with sleep paralysis.” Jemma stilled. She had moved to the bottom cabinets to get plates, and she had one in each hand when her body froze. “I never had it before, but I’m pretty sure, cause it fits the description.” Trip rattled on unaware of Jemma’s internal dilemma. 

“Did you see anything?” Jemma asked. 

Trip seemed surprised at her sudden interruption, but he shrugged it off quickly. “Yeah, that’s why I was so sure it was sleep paralysis.”

“What exactly did you see?” Jemma pressed. She tried to keep the panic and the sharp edge of urgency out of her voice. She didn’t want to scare Trip. 

“It was a woman, but not like a regular woman- sort of distorted. I’m not sure. I could only see the silhouette.” Jemma felt the nausea hit her then. She emerged from her crouch, setting one of the plates gently in front of Trip. Her stomach didn’t seem to be in it anymore, and Jemma grabbed a few slices to put in the fridge. She was only half there- giving weak laughs at Trip’s attempts to bring her out of her stupor. 

“I think I’m going to bed early tonight,” Jemma muttered. 

“Is everything alright?”

“Perfectly fine,” Jemma forced a smile onto her face, “I’m just tired.”

When she crawled into bed, she lied down on her back with no real exhaustion. Her eyes were wide open, and her mind was buzzing. She always thought Trip would be safe. He had never lived in that house, but it wasn’t the residents that the lady seemed to hold a vendetta against. Jemma was sure now- the evidence was concrete. It was never about living in the house. It was about Jemma.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Leave a comment or kudos if you liked it or have any thoughts. It's my first time publishing a multi-chapter fic on Ao3, so I'd really appreciate any feedback!


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